LITMIR.BIZ

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pushed back from the table, her appetite overruled by the need to see Warbourne, to get to the stables where worries and thoughts wouldn’t plague her.

      ‘Leaving so soon?’ Giles looked up from his paper. ‘Anxious to see your colt?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I don’t suppose we’ll see you before dinner?’ Giles arched a dark brow in query.

      ‘There’s a lot to be done. I was gone for two days,’ Phaedra said.

      ‘That’s what Basingstoke is for. Let him do the job he’s been hired for.’ Giles gave her a patient, brotherly smile. ‘You need time to be yourself, to do things you enjoy, Phae. You’ve been working too hard. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’ Giles folded the newspaper and set it aside.

      ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this spring, Phae. I know now isn’t the best time, but perhaps after dinner tonight?’ It was a token of how much Giles had softened this year that he was asking at all. Last year Giles would simply have issued his edict and considered it done.

      ‘Perhaps,’ Phaedra offered noncommittally. Giles could talk all he wanted. She wasn’t going to London for a Season. She had the Derby to think about. She couldn’t be spending her days on Bond Street trying on dresses to impress men she wasn’t going to marry, not when Warbourne needed her here. Phaedra grabbed up an apple from a bowl on the sideboard and made a hasty retreat before Giles decided to have the discussion right then.

      Unlike the quiet house, the stables were a hive of activity. Horses and grooms rose early. Phaedra went straight to an old, unused tack room she’d converted into an office during the winter and began going through paperwork that had arrived while she was gone. There wasn’t much of it, but the ritual was soothing and it centred her thoughts. Here, sitting at the scarred desk she’d found in the stable storage loft, she felt at home. This was her place. A rough desk, a rough chair, the worn breeding ledgers lined on a shelf that detailed every foal born at Castonbury—all of it defined her world.

      Phaedra pulled down a book that catalogued the horses at Castonbury. She flipped through until she found a blank page towards the back. She reached for the quill and inkstand on her desk and carefully wrote Warbourne, followed by his lineage, the price paid and date of purchase. She blew on the ink to dry it and surveyed the entry with a deep sense of pride. It was time to see the colt.

      Phaedra strode through the stable, stopping every so often to stroke a head poking out of its stall. She was nearly to Warbourne’s stall when she sensed it. Something was wrong. No, not wrong, merely different, out of the usual. Phaedra backtracked two stalls and halted. Merlin’s stall was empty.

      Jamie! Phaedra tamped down a wave of uncertain emotion, part fear and part wild hope tinged by memories of Troubadour and Edward, who had not been parted, not even in death. Phaedra strode through the stables at a half-run looking for Tom Anderson. ‘Tom!’ she called out, finding him cleaning a saddle. ‘Tom, where’s Merlin?’

      ‘Now settle yourself, missy. There’s nothing wrong,’ Tom said in calm tones. ‘Bram’s got him out in the round pen for a little work. You know how he’s been giving the boys trouble. No one’s been on him for quite a while and the longer he goes without discipline, the harder it will be to instil any in him.’

      Phaedra’s emotions settled into neutral agitation. A stranger had taken out Jamie’s horse. It was true, Merlin needed work. But it still felt odd. ‘The round pen, you said?’ She would go and have a look, and if anything was amiss, it would be the last time Bram Basingstoke helped himself to Jamie’s horse.

      Phaedra pulled her hacking jacket closer against the cold as she made her way towards the round pen. The day was overcast and grey, the sky full of clouds. In short, a typical Derbyshire March day. There would be twenty-seven more of them, probably all of them save the variance in rainfall. Derbyshire wasn’t known for ‘early springs.’

      In the offing, she could see the chestnut blur of Merlin as he cantered the perimeter of the pen. Cantered? That was promising. Phaedra quickened her pace. Lately, Merlin usually galloped heedlessly in the round pen, not minding any of the commands from the exercise boys. This morning, he was collected, running in a circle at a controlled pace.

      As she neared, Phaedra made out the dark form of a man in the centre, long whip raised for instruction in one arm, the other arm stretched out in front of him holding the lunge line. But that wasn’t what held her attention. It was the fact that the man in question was doing all this shirtless. This time, Phaedra’s shiver had nothing at all to do with the weather.

       Chapter Four

      Bram Basingstoke stood in the round pen stripped to the waist and gleaming indecently with sweat. Phaedra was torn between continuing forward—which would result in him putting his shirt on, or standing back to discreetly watch him work, which would result in the shirt staying off a bit longer—a very enticing proposition, especially when one was as well made as he and she’d had very few opportunities to see such a finely honed man. It wasn’t nearly the same as seeing one’s brother en déshabillé.

      Phaedra opted for the latter and stayed back by the hay shed. No girl with an iota of curiosity about the male physique would discard the chance to see such a display of manhood. Déshabillé was hardly an apt description. Déshabillé implied casually or partially dressed. She supposed breeches and boots counted as partially dressed, technically. But the point remained, he was closer to ‘half naked’ than partially dressed and gloriously so.

      The muscles of his arm were taut with exertion from holding the lunge line, showing developed upper arms and well-formed shoulders. There had been considerable power behind the fist that had floored Sir Nathan the day before. Broad shoulders gave way to a well-defined torso, a veritable atlas of ridges and muscle leading to a tapered waist. With that kind of strength on display it was no wonder Merlin was cantering dutifully through his exercises.

      Bram brought Merlin to a halt. She should probably make her presence known. She couldn’t stand here all day ogling the help. Aunt Wilhelmina would have an apoplexy if she knew or if she saw … Phaedra stifled a laugh at the thought of Aunt Wilhelmina seeing Bram like this. She doubted Aunt Wilhelmina had ever tolerated a naked man in her presence. More the pity for her. Phaedra squared her shoulders and prepared to pretend she hadn’t been watching him work.

      Bram saw her crossing the field from the hay shed and smiled. He’d felt her even before that. Bram reeled in the big stallion length by length. It had been her. She’d been watching him. The little minx had finally decided to make her presence known. He would be interested to see what she would do now that she had to do more than admire him from a distance. Chances were she wasn’t in the habit of viewing men’s bare chests on a daily basis.

      ‘Good morning!’ he called out cheerfully, waving an arm her direction. He should put on his shirt, but what would the fun be in that? Still, propriety demanded it. Bram reached half-heartedly for the garment but his hand stalled at a closer view of her. Good Lord, the woman was wearing riding breeches—and wearing them well. Bram left his shirt where it hung on a post.

      ‘That’s Jamie’s horse,’ Phaedra said without preamble. She propped a booted leg up on a rail, calling far too much attention to the shapely thigh encased in buckskin. In skirts, one wasn’t aware of just how long her legs were. In breeches, there was no avoiding the fact. Bram adjusted his gaze to her face, trying to dispel hot thoughts of those long legs wrapped about him, the curve of her derriere neatly nestled in his hands. The effort succeeded only marginally.

      ‘I know whose horse it is. The stable lads mentioned he hadn’t had a proper exercise in a while on account of his unruly nature,’ Bram answered coolly, keenly aware Miss Phaedra Montague was a pretty handful of trouble herself. Was she?

      Did she have any idea what those legs in breeches did to a man, to say nothing of the white shirt falling loosely over her breasts. He’d always been rather partial to a woman in a man’s shirt. There was something

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